


Interlude

by Hannibals_Jorts



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Domestic, Europe, F/M, Firenze | Florence, Growing Old Together, Healthy Relationships, Italy, Love, Mentions of Cancer, Moving On, Old Married Couple, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibals_Jorts/pseuds/Hannibals_Jorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Bella Crawford are celebrating - Bella has triumphed over her literal cancer, and Jack has triumphed over his figurative one: he has abandoned his obsessive pursuit of Hannibal Lecter. To toast their life’s new direction, they revisit the place where they first met - Florence, Italy. </p>
<p>TV canon for Bella's cancer from season 2, not so much else. I couldn't stand that she died - she and Jack's relationship was one of my favorite things in the show -  so I wrote this to cheer myself up. </p>
<p>Sorry if my understanding of Italian food culture is off, I did some fast Googling. I hope you enjoy it, please share your thoughts!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

The waiter was all of nineteen. Bags hung from his eyes as he took Jack’s order, and he blinked often.

_This poor kid… Up all night partying probably, and meeting the dawn from the other side. I remember how it was when I was young._

Italian rolled off Jack’s tongue as he ordered for himself and his guest. The little bistro, empty but for Jack and the waiter, sat near the Ponte Vecchio and offered a view of the canal. _“Grazi,”_ he finished.

_“Si.”_ The youth moved away, every inch of him at home here, from the long slim frame to the artfully disheveled hair; just another work of art in a land full of beauty.

_Staying up all night for the bureau was always a death-watch because it was during a job; you never knew how things would go, or even if everyone would make it to dawn… But greeting Italian dawn after you’ve been up all night with your best friend, and you’ve got nothing to do but live the rest of your lives together… I could get used to this._

A vision walked up the street.

_A land full of beauty, indeed._

Bella, in a camel-colored coat, wine-colored dress, and coffee-colored boots with sensible heels tapping on cobblestones, strode toward him. A curl of hair escaped from her headband and brushed her cheek as she stepped up onto the curb. She offered him her smile and pushed the curl behind her ear.

_I wanted to do that._

“Did you order?” she asked, sinking into the chair across from him. She set her bag by her feet and looped one handle around her ankle as she always did, insisting it made her feel safer.

“I did. I got you a _cafe latte_ and _crostata amarena_. And for me, _espresso_ and _fritole.”_

She grinned. Her cheeks, thinned by the chemo, were gaining back some of their shape and he ached at the sight. She patted his hand. “Listen to you, speaking it like you know it.”

He chuckled. “I think I know what we’re getting, but who knows- I might have asked for a shoe full of pudding.”

She laughed.

_I’m so glad we’re here. So glad she’s here, that she’s still anywhere- still alive and breathing._ A gargoyle under a roof across the street caught his eye. Its tongue lolled, its eyes bulged, and one horn ended in a broken stump. By the look of it, it had been alone under the roof and staring at this little bistro for centuries. _I can’t imagine myself without her- I wouldn’t want to._

“Hey.” She was staring at him, the brown eyes nailing him to his chair. She touched his hand. “Hey, don’t wander off. We’re supposed to be celebrating.”

He took her hand, and their wedding rings touching made a tiny, delicate sound. “I know. I’m here.” 

The waiter returned, bearing plates with steaming pastries. Bella’s turned out to be a kind of croissant full of sour cherries, and Jack’s was a ball of fried dough studded with golden raisins and dusted with drifts of confectioner’s sugar.

His payload delivered, the waiter rubbed his face and headed back inside, not bothering to ask if they needed anything.

Jack lifted his demitasse from its saucer, raising an eyebrow. “Should I keep my pinkie out?”

She grinned as she cut into her _crostata._ “No more fancy stuff. In fact, after we’re done here we should go find crappy American food. Like those places that sell deep-fried hamburgers made with donuts.”

“Sold.” He sipped, his pinkie resolutely curled into his palm.

She lifted her eyes from her food. They drifted past him– she froze.

“What?” When she didn’t respond, he turned.

A bloodied, bedraggled figure shuffled down the street.

_No… no it can’t be, he’s in Baltimore. Or… or he was-_

The lean, tall figure made its way toward them. Great maroon patches fouled the man’s fine evening dress. He was missing his tie, jacket, and a shoe. One eye swelled shut and blood leaked from a corner of the aristocratic mouth. His hair stuck out in a way that strongly suggested someone had grabbed hold of it at some point.

_“Buongiorno,”_ Hannibal said, his voice rough. He nodded, the coppery eyes darting between the Crawfords, their edges crinkling.

_He looks like he just went ten rounds with a dump truck. He’s worn out, barely on his feet. I remember when we tangled… It was like getting into the ring with a lion and I’m lucky I survived. But now… I could throw this napkin at him and he’d fall over…_

Jack nodded back. His fingers curled, crushing the napkin.

Hannibal's eyes leapt to Bella. “Bella, always a pleasure.”

“Dr. Lecter.” Bella’s tone could have started another Ice Age.

_He’s here, now, in Florence. Right there…_

They watched as the figure made its way past. Hannibal paused to lean against a wall, then disappeared around the corner.

Jack set his cup down and folded his hands in his lap. “You know what that looks like to me?” 

Bella hadn’t moved; her fork and knife still hung in the air over the dismembered croissant. “What?”

Jack smiled. “That looks to me... like _someone else’s_ problem.”


End file.
